it ain't the fall that gets you
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Tags for Riddick (2013). Johns still thinks of his son every time he rigs for cryo ... and Riddick ain't in the habit of caring about whether some merc lives or dies.
1. it ain't the fall that gets you

**Title**: it ain't the fall that gets you

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the world is not.

**Summary**: _Johns still thinks of his son every time he rigs for cryo ... and Riddick ain't in the habit of giving a shit about whether some merc lives or dies._ 2400 words

**Spoilers**: Tag for Riddick (2013)

**Notes**: Originally posted to LJ and AO3 on September 13. A pair of post-movie tags, because I liked Boss Johns and his crew a lot more than I expected to, and Riddick is still so very ... Riddick. Warning for pre-slash ... and for taking Dahl seriously.

* * *

Johns thought of his son every time he rigged for cryo: of the Hunter Gratzner, thrown off course while its passengers and crew slept on, unaware. Even after finally running Riddick to ground, that hadn't changed. But the tenor of those thoughts had, just a little.

He frowned over at Dahl, strapping into the copilot's chair; they were alone, their new recruit already settled in the crew racks in back. "You've been patient with me and my quest for a lot of years, Dahl. You ever think maybe it wasn't worth it?"

His second looked up, shrugging casually. "You needed closure, and he was your kid. Far be it from me to tell another person how to live their life. Long as you kept your crew fed and paid, I never cared."

She didn't say, why ask now? But he couldn't help but answer, anyway. "You know, when we were out there digging up the nodes... Riddick told me my son was a hype. That he'd tried to kill a kid to save his own skin, and that's why he didn't make it off that world."

He still wasn't sure he believed Billy could have fallen that far. But in all the time Johns had been hunting him, Riddick had never denied any of his kills. If he'd said Billy wasn't one of them... Johns didn't like to admit it, but he didn't see what the percentage would have been in lying.

Dahl wrinkled her nose. "Well, that _would_ explain the contempt. Did you believe him?"

Johns faltered, looking away from her blunt gaze. "I don't know. His record was even better than mine after he left the MPs and got his own ship- at least, before he started chasing Riddick. I was pretty damn proud of him. But he always was an OCD little shit."

Dahl cleared her throat and hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say anything else; the silence stung like the pinch of the needle in his forearm. Shit; he really _had_ been deluding himself all this time, hadn't he?

"Never met him myself," she said finally, "but I did know a couple guys who fought with him in the Wailing Wars. Asked me if you were as ruthless as he was, when I first took up with your crew."

Johns shut his eyes. No use asking why she hadn't mentioned it before; they'd never been the kind of coworkers who painted each other's toenails and shared life histories between bounties. "Never would have believed Riddick might turn out to be innocent. Of that, at least. I'm _still_ not sure why I honored the deal and went back for him."

She chuckled. "Yeah, well, that's Riddick for you. Look at me; I swore I'd never straddle the guy, and there I was, whispering all sweet-like in his ear."

He opened his eyes again at that, shooting her a skeptical look. He really hadn't thought Dahl was that flexible about her bedmates; he'd found it refreshing, actually, not having to worry about her taking some remark of his the wrong way, or the rest of the crew causing trouble competing for her favors. "Seriously? Not that it's any of my business, but... he did say to tell you to keep it warm for him."

Dahl snorted. "Asshole," she said- but she was smiling as she said it. "He really does have big brass ones. C'mon, when would I have given him a ride? While I was patching up that mess he made of the hole in his chest, with the kid in the room the whole time? Nah. I'd bet you half the bounty on his head he was no more interested in me than I was in him, except as another predator. So I teased him back; that's as far as it went. You think I don't know someone else putting on a front when I see one? Half the shit he said was just sideshow theatrics."

_It ain't me you gotta worry about_, Johns remembered, and shuddered. "Yeah, I could tell by the way he was dropping men right and left." Five of Santana's crew, cut, trapped or strung up, including Santana himself, taken out with his own blade in an extraordinary display of skill. _Normally, I'd just keep going_, Riddick had bragged.

"Well, I got it by the way he never killed any of _ours_." She shrugged, ruefully. "He could've, easily. Hadn't been for that dog, we probably never would've got our hands on him at all."

"Dahl, we left this rock with _half_ the men we arrived with," he reminded her. Luna was an all-right kid, but he didn't measure up to Lockspur and Moss' level of training and experience.

"Didn't say he didn't _get_ our guys killed, not leveling with us from the start, but he never targeted us. Just let us fall foul of our own assumptions. Makes you wonder what the stories are behind the rest of his kill-list."

Johns curled his lip, reminded again of Billy, and the ten years he'd wasted just to hear that his son had folded when things got rough. That he'd been no better than the men he'd sent to slam. No, Johns didn't wonder what the rest of the stories were; he was pretty sure he didn't want to know. "I _still_ can't believe we're sitting here justifying letting him go free. He's a psychotic murderer."

"Yeah?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "I know it's personal for you, Boss, but if he was all that crazy for blood, he could have killed me twice while you were out tracking. Hell, he could have taken me and Santana both the second time and skipped the whole exchange; the mess he made of the comms and the locker _had_ to have gone down while I was teaching the moron a lesson for licking my face."

That was news to Johns. "And the first time?"

"There was a broken window in the washroom. And while I was rinsing off, my compact- the one with the mirror- went missing out of my kit. I thought Santana had been perving on me, at first. But it had to have been Riddick; and he would've had to reach right past me to grab it. Centimeters away. He could have ghosted me before I even knew he was there." Dahl gave him a wry smile. "So what's it tell you that all he did was taunt me about my nipples- _after_ I put my armor back on, in the middle of a dick measuring contest with the rest of you? Sideshow, like I said. He already had all the power; he was just making sure we knew it."

Johns sighed. Whoever _needed_ killing, he remembered Riddick justifying himself over Diaz; _they wanted my head in a box_, about Santana's other boys. But the concept of Riddick with _honor_ still grated badly against ten years of fury. "You _sure_ you're not going sweet on him?" he replied, lightly.

"You sure _you're_ not going sweet on him?" she teased back, waggling her eyebrows. "Just because I don't do cock doesn't mean I can't see the appeal. He's a fit motherfucker, and the way he goes on the stalk, imagine if he decided to stalk _you_. Might get some great hatesex out of it."

Johns blinked as his brain went there, and shot her a dismayed look. "Dahl!"

"Just sayin'," she chuckled, then secured the last of her restraints and started the drip. "See you on the other side, Boss. Sweet dreams."

Johns swore under his breath, then activated his own system and leaned back into his chair. It wasn't as if he'd ever see Riddick again, anyway...

He yawned, and drifted away into the dark whispers of cryosleep.

* * *

I'm not in the habit of giving a shit about whether some merc lives or dies, but I did check up on Boss Johns a couple times after I left the hellhole planet where we met. Legitimate info about Furya ain't easy to find- forty years is long enough for even institutional memory to fade- so I had the time, and it's not like there's anyone else left in the universe I've parted on decent terms with.

Might be the novelty of an honest, do-right merc; they're about as rare as daylight in a triple-max slam. Might be that "please" when he was asking for news of his son; can't remember the last time I heard that when it wasn't someone begging for their lives. Or it might be the fact that he actually came back for me when I fell; something only one other person has ever done for me. Me, Richard B. Riddick, admitted convict and murder. And this one hadn't even asked if I was ready to rejoin civilization.

Could be it's a little of all of the above, plus a ruthless streak that I can definitely approve of. Letting Santana's men take the brunt of me that first night was inspired; established Johns top of the pecking order without his having to lift a finger, and spared me the effort of sifting the scum from the unknowns when I took out the sentries. Not to mention he only had the opportunity to come back for me in the first place because he'd had the testes to take the node off my back and leave me to the mud beasts when I fell. If he'd tried to drag me with him, like as not he'd have got us both killed. Instead, he popped off a grenade, shielded me from the blast, and then got his ass moving quick as he could.

Only other man I thought might be trustworthy in the last decade didn't have that kind of steel; strength of heart, but not the calculus to make those cold-blooded decisions. Made me curious. Made me wonder what the man's wife had been like, that Little Johns had fallen so far from the tree. Or if she'd had much influence at all, if he'd talked about notes in a Bible rather than answering to Billy-boy's ma.

Made me wonder if like drew like, and that was part of the reason I'd always had such shitty luck with people. Rest of the man's crew had seemed unusually decent, too; the one I'd faced down when I'd emptied the locker, and the one who'd mentioned serpents when the rain came- he must've seen the cave paintings in the bolthole where I'd stashed Santana's man. And Dahl, of course. Now there was a woman.

I mighta focused more of my energy on Dahl instead of her shot-caller, if I'd thought there was any real potential to be found there. She's a hell of a fighter, with a body made for all kinds of sin and a mind nearly as vicious as mine. Reminded me of Kyra in that way, if a little more disciplined. But there wasn't even a hint of arousal in her scent all the times I was near her, even when she winched down to pull me up to the ship. Probably for the best. We're a little too alike to run smoothly together for long.

But Johns? Big Daddy Johns brings back my days as a Ranger, back when I'd still thought I was on the legit side of the law. Men who genuinely thought of their squaddies as brothers, and didn't prey on the less fortunate. Most of 'em died young, or got betrayed same as I did. Never thought a man like that could thrive in the bounty business.

Guess he's still got time to surrender to statistics, though; he ain't nearly as old as he should be. Must have spent a lot of time relativistic, or slumbering years away in cryo in the ghost lanes. I'd have guessed he and Little Johns for brothers, not father and son, if Billy hadn't bitched about his daddy one of the times he had me in cuffs. Married young, maybe, spent all his time in space; that's the way things go sometimes. Kid grew up resentful, decided to best his father at his own job; that's the way things go sometimes, too.

I'll probably never know if it woulda gone that way with me, even if I _do_ find my world. Necros wrote the first chapter of my life, and they're still doing their best to write the last. Vaako should have known I wouldn't fold that easy, though. Or maybe he did; last thing I heard Krone say when he knocked me off that cliff was 'keep what you kill', and Vaako's the one who truly wants the crown. Krone probably got 'promoted' to full dead the moment he set foot back in the Basilica, all so Vaako could claim it without the odor of betrayal. And if my name turned up on the lips of the Quasi-Dead again? The failure could be conveniently blamed on the cut-out.

I'm sure it has, by now. No doubt I'll run into Vaako again when I do reach Furya. Third strike might be my last... or it might be his. One way or the other, that'll be a legendary day.

'Til then? I'm a simple creature, when you get right down to it. Don't need more than the basics to get by: shelter, food, quiet, the occasional fuck. Gender don't matter, long as they're willing; spend enough of your adult life in the system and you learn to make do. It'll be a mild day on Crematoria before the likes of Johns looks at the likes of me, though, or I might mix business with pleasure the next time I pass his way. Because I'm starting to figure we _will_ have business again, and soon.

With all records of Furya destroyed, my best bet is probably living history: people who knew the planet first hand. Forty years is a long time, but it ain't enough for dust to blow over _every_ grave. Johns must've been an adult already when it happened; merc with his clock should at least know who to ask next, if nothing more. And _him_, I think I can trust far enough to give a straight answer.

Me trusting a merc? Time was, I would have sworn the day would never come.

...Might be interesting to see what other assumptions he might prove wrong.

-x-


	2. c'mon, show me some teeth

**Title**: c'mon, show me some teeth

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the 'verse is not.

**Summary**: _Johns had been right; he should have paid more attention to those sensor ghosts. "Son of a bitch. Have you been following me?"._ 5700 words.

**Spoilers**: Riddick (2013)

**Notes**: So this started out as an exercise in exploring unexpected Foe Yay in the manliest manly-man movie of the year. Um. Warning for my usual subthemes about grief and being who you are; surprise yes-that's-them, nope-no-details-yet fusion characters; a lit reference or two; and alas, fade to black. Originally posted to LJ on September 24.

* * *

After leaving the no-name world that hosted Co-op Station P7 behind him, Boss Johns hadn't expected to ever see Riddick again. Not in person; not as anything more than a scowling face attached to yet another bounty sheet, and he'd had his fill of chasing the man for a lifetime.

He didn't feel any particular need to see him punished anymore, and he didn't envy the next man who tried to match wits with the famous escaped convict. In a strange way, he even hoped Riddick stayed uncaught; now that Johns had bested his white whale and saved the man in turn, it was as if all that driving rage had just... burned itself out of him.

Ironically, Dahl seemed to think that meant he was going through some kind of delayed masculine grieving process, and her chosen antidotes were cheap alcohol and lurid 'what I bet really happened' tales about the greatest hits of Riddick's record. Perversely enough, after having lived through one of his own, Johns did find the stories mildly entertaining; even the ones that covered his son's adventures with Riddick before M-344/G. Back then, they'd played cat and mouse from system to system more than once, even breaking _each other_ out of slam on one infamous occasion. The vidcall after that one had been... memorable.

That might have been part of why Johns had taken Billy's death so hard to begin with; because he'd actually rolled his eyes when his son had called to pass on the transit details for the Hunter Gratzner. Johns hadn't taken the situation seriously; hadn't told him to take care, or even asked if the wound Billy had taken on their last encounter was healing well. No two guesses why he'd ended up a hype, if what Riddick claimed about the morphine was true. And that was the last time Johns had ever spoken to him.

Dahl had even turned up the old Earth motto associated with Riddick's surname: _tu ne cede malis_, Yield Not To Misfortune. Johns had never heard anything more redundant in his life.

He debated with himself several times about what to report to the guild, but ultimately settled on emphasizing the planet's dangers and minimizing their contact with Riddick. He started with a series of very scathing and specific notes on the meteorology and zoology in the vicinity of the station to add to the guild's shared files; if whoever had built the thing had done the same, it would have made dealing with Riddick a lot less disastrous for his crew, if not Santana's. If they'd bothered to include a selection of massive predator restraints, they should damn well have made a note of what those restraints were intended _for_. In the section where he mentioned signing Luna, Johns also noted that Riddick had wiped out the majority of the mercenary crew that had arrived before his, and had taken their ship. End of story. The only ones who knew different were hardly going to contradict him.

Next time, he'd all-but-promised Riddick; _next_ time he wouldn't be able to overlook the man's kill count. But there wasn't going to be a next time, and Johns was a man of his word.

Whatever Dahl had said to Luna seemed to have settled the kid, at least, and he'd come to contract without a quibble for the ethical guidelines Johns insisted on, few as they were. That brought them back to three; and Johns filled the crew out during the stopover on Lupus V with two more experienced gun hands between jobs, one with a secondary specialty in nav and the other a decent back-up medic for Dahl. They'd served together before, according to their jackets, and seemed a fairly competent pair; Johns set them to training with Luna under Dahl's supervision whenever they had sufficient downtime. He'd have preferred to have kept Moss and Lockspur, but Reynolds and Alleyne would have to do.

After that, it was back to routine. He picked out a few smaller bounties to warm up the crew, then went back on the hunt, the pursuit of high-risk felons that had marked both Johns' career and his son's. Urban planets, pioneer worlds, a few slams; bar a few sensor glitches that kept cropping up in the flight data, it was almost a vacation in comparison to those brief hours in the stormy dark. Johns told himself he'd finally put his decade long obsession with Billy's death behind him, and tried not to think too hard about the uncharted future stretching out in front of him.

For so long, his main goal in life had been the need to find justice for his son. Without that motivation, with his wife long gone and no other children in the picture, who would write the final chapter for _him_? Dahl? He'd rather she sold out before she slowed down, and set up as a trainer or something back on Lupus V. Luna could be her second, and maybe she'd find some rich merchant gal to spoil her rotten. Johns was long past any desire for domesticity for himself; he figured he'd keep chasing bounties until someone managed to turn the tables on him, find his comfort where he could from others as rootless as he was. Ships passing in the night. He'd already had a longer run than most hunters got.

It took another few months, and an unexpected shadow stretching out beside his chosen perch during a slow hunt on a scrubworld, to snap him out of that self-defeating mindset. A tall person's shadow, smooth crowned, with curves suggesting eyewear bracketing its face: a shape that had been stamped on his memory long before he ever saw it in person. All at once, every emotion Johns had gone through on that hellish night grounded through him like a lightning strike. The dread, the anger, the hatred; the disgust, and the reluctant respect. The pride- and sacrificing that pride to necessity. The white-hot blur of adrenaline-fueled survival. And something like recognition, there at the last.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck: and just like that, Johns' life snapped back into sharp focus.

"Riddick," he said, gruffly, without bothering to look up from his reclined position on a convenient rock formation.

"Hello, Johns," that familiar, gravelly voice drawled, close enough to take down with a kick, if he cared to try. If Riddick cared to stand there and let him. "Still keeping that spine strong, I see."

Johns closed his eyes, taking a calming breath through his nose as facts flashed through his mind. No contrails recently, no signals detected since landing; Riddick must've already been on-world when they'd arrived. No sign of the bounty yet either, bar a few traces several days old at a minimum; none of the obvious hidey holes had panned out. And the bounty was known to have crossed paths with Riddick during one of his brief triple-max incarcerations.

"Tell me this, before you say anything else: is my bounty still alive?"

"_Your_ bounty? I thought possession was nine-tenths of the law," Riddick replied, in a wry, considering tone. "Though I suppose I _would_ have a problem trying to collect."

Johns sighed, then shot a glare up at the inscrutable, looming figure. The handmade leather gear was gone; Riddick was all in shades of black, clean-clad and clean-skinned, a little less feral but even deadlier for it. A blade oiled and sharpened, rust scraped away. If that was a front, as Dahl claimed, it was surely a paper-thin one. But if that was all there was to him, what the hell was he doing there?

"My bounty?" he repeated tersely, refusing to flinch.

Riddick chuckled, the corner of his mouth curling in what might charitably be called a smile. "Don't get your shorts in a knot; he's still in one, breathing piece. Ain't even buried."

But he _did_ have an exchange in mind, apparently. Johns had been right; he should have paid more attention to those sensor ghosts. "Son of a bitch. Have you been _following_ me?"

"Guilty," Riddick's grin widened. "Got a question to ask you, merc."

The sight of the man, there under the bright, bluish sun, was almost surreal. Something between a nightmare and a fantasy come back to haunt him. Or the punchline from one of the stories he'd had at his mother's knee: _some people exist just to test us, dear._ Johns frowned and climbed to his feet, unwilling to yield the unspoken high ground any longer, and stowed his monocular in a pocket.

"Even if I wasn't in the middle of a job here, in case you've forgotten, there's still the matter of my dead crew. I haven't forgotten _them_. And I'd really prefer not to have to break in any more."

Riddick snorted his opinion of that. "Your guys went out fighting. Died quick, and not at the hands of their fellow man. We should all be so lucky. But don't worry; aside from your crew, and your other friend with the rap sheet, ain't any predators on this planet worth the name."

"Of course, coming from you, that don't mean much," Johns replied, then crossed his arms and sighed. No point drawing it out. "Alright. What's the question, then?"

"Just like that?" Riddick arched his eyebrows. "Not even gonna make me buy you dinner first?"

Did the man _have_ to make everything sound like either a come-on or a death threat? Or both? "You telling me you've got something more palatable than the Three Lies on offer?" he scoffed.

"The Three Lies? Ah, you mean Meals, Ready to Eat?" Riddick smirked. "Yeah, I opened one of those packets from the locker at P7, called itself crab somethin' or other. Not even the dog would touch it."

The wry smile faded at the reminder of his pet- and so did Johns'; frankly, he hadn't given a damn one way or another about some native animal, but Riddick's absolute determination to stop Santana from killing the thing had led to a desperate few minutes where he wasn't sure whether Dahl's horse tranq would ever kick in, or if it would even matter, if Johns couldn't stop Santana and Diaz from plugging his quarry full of holes. Riddick hadn't been the only one waking up afterward with a busted forehead. And it was a pretty direct line from there to Diaz shoving Johns' jetbike off a cliff the first opportunity he got. That last march would have gone much easier if they'd had all three bikes at the dig site.

Johns blinked away a wry image of _Riddick_ being forced to ride bitch seat, scanning the con's face for evidence of wounds long since healed, and offered an apology to break the tense silence. "Sorry about that, by the way. It was all I could do to keep them from killing _you_."

"At the time." Riddick tilted his head, eyeing him shrewdly. "Would you really have let 'em chop my head off, once you got me in those chains?"

"If you recall, I was pretty fuckin' pissed with you. At the time," he shrugged. Having the answers he needed held just out of reach after so many years of pursuing them, he'd been too sick with fury to object. Unpleasant or not, he'd just wanted _some_ kind of closure. "And I'd made him a deal."

"Man of your word," Riddick nodded, as if that made it all right; and hell, maybe in his world, it did. "Thought you were just another coward with a nickel-slick badge, at first. But you got steel."

"So glad you approve," Johns replied, dryly. "Speaking of words. The question?"

Riddick nodded, then made an after-you gesture back the way Johns had come, a narrow, weed-choked trail winding up the side of a hill between scraggly bushes. The whole landscape was a wrinkled cloak of anemic greens and dusty browns, full of nooks and crannies big enough to hide a man- or a ship. "More of a quest. And I'd prefer not to have this conversation while we're skylined. Not that I think there's another sniper out here apart from yours, but I didn't survive this long by taking chances."

"Ah, so you want me to buy _you_ dinner," Johns snorted, but took the hint and led the way down the hill. The back of his neck itched at Riddick's proximity; but he hadn't seen a holster anywhere in Riddick's gear, and if the man had wanted to knife him he'd probably already be dead. "I think that's going a little fast, don't you? How's about we make it tea."

"Tea? Sure," Riddick replied, a note of amusement in his voice. "I killed a man with a teacup once."

Was he supposed to take that as casual conversation, or a threat? With Riddick, it was hard to tell. "Any particular reason? Or just for shits and giggles?"

"'Cause he wouldn't take no for an answer. Don't doubt she'd have preferred to take care of it herself, like your Dahl; but there was a pack of 'em, and they had the advantage."

Johns would call bullshit, but he _had_ chased the guy for ten years; that was actually one crime Riddick had never been accused of. Whether he bought the man deliberately interfering on behalf of someone else's victim, though-

He was abruptly reminded of their conversation about his son again, and shut down that train of thought in a hurry. "Doesn't exactly square with your fearsome reputation."

"Scared guys stop thinking. Dull their own edge," Riddick shrugged, pacing forward as the path widened to come up level with him. He lifted his goggles as a cloudbank ghosted over the sun, and shot a silver-eyed, knowing glance in Johns' direction. "I think that's worked on you about as much as it's going to."

A shiver went through Johns at the look, a faint echo of the lightning flash earlier, and he snorted in lieu of a reply, still parsing his own reaction. Riddick might not have killed his son, but he'd sure as shit stood back and watched it happen. That should still fucking _matter_, but the old outrage just wasn't there anymore.

He was glad of the distraction when a startled Luna suddenly popped up out of the brush ahead of them; the kid had been setting sensors to give the crew a warning if their quarry circled back, to prevent an end-run like the one Riddick had pulled after disabling the Cyclops. Anchored on their ship, the sensors Luna was setting could be isolated without shutting the whole system down. He gave the kid a signal that he wasn't under duress, then touched the comm at his ear.

"Dahl, Reynolds, Alleyne; get your asses back to base, the bounty has been located, repeat, the bounty has been located. We got us a visitor." He carefully didn't clarify who; he didn't want to hear it from Dahl, and whichever way Reynolds and Alleyne jumped would just complicate matters.

"Copy that." "Copy," his men- or, more accurately, man and women- reported back, and he dropped his hand.

"Luna?" he continued off comm. "Riddick says he knows where Herton is; we're going aboard to negotiate terms. Keep setting the sensors, just in case, and report to Dahl when she gets back. Got it?"

"Got it," Luna nodded, still staring at Riddick, eyes wide. "Did you know he was going to be here?"

"_He_ don't appreciate being discussed in third person," Riddick raised an eyebrow at the younger merc. "And I should hope I'd know better than to report my location on an open frequency."

Luna swallowed visibly, one hand automatically going to the Bible in his vest pocket. "Yes, sir. Uh, Riddick." He shot a worried side-glance at Johns.

Johns just sighed, aggravated, and gave the kid a get-on-with-it wave as they passed him, approaching the ship.

Riddick chuckled again, the sound low in his throat. "As I was saying."

Johns slipped the keyrod out of his pocket and set it to trigger the lock- then paused for again and glanced over his shoulder at his nemesis turned uneasy ally or whatever the hell else he was that day. "Don't make me regret this," he said. "Fair warning."

Riddick's grin widened, every millimeter more of teeth that showed a challenge. "You got no imagination, Johns," he drawled. "If I'm gonna give you something to regret, it's gonna be a whole lot more interesting than _this_." He took another step forward, far into Johns' personal space, and set his hand over Johns' to turn the rod and open the bay.

Between the suggestive grip and the suggestive words- Johns opened his mouth, then closed it. _Pick your battles_, he told himself, and gestured inside as the ramp hit the ground. "Be my guest."

"Don't mind if I do," Riddick said, and turned away, striding up into the ship like he owned it.

Johns shook his head, then closed up the ramp and followed Riddick into the ship's galley and storage area. He was pretty sure he'd seen Moss shove a few packets of some minty green blend to the back of his private food locker a few months before; it had come in a care package from his family, not because he actually liked it, but because his sister had wanted to remind him of the civilization he'd left behind. The idea of serving some to Riddick tickled some long-buried facet of whimsy in Johns, like Dahl painting her toenails a pretty shade of 'predator' pink. He needed that touch of lightheartedness at the moment.

Riddick leaned against the opposite wall while Johns rummaged around, watching the whole process with a sphinxlike smile. "Don't remember the last time someone served me tea," he said as he took the cup a few moments later, then took a deep breath over the rim. "Takes me back to New Mecca."

"Moss's sister was from that neighborhood. Helion Three," Johns nodded. The stuff smelled like grasswater to him; he'd take kaf any day, but he knew how strong a role scent played in memory. And vice versa. He could almost taste the foul scorpion blood and mineral-rich rainwater from their last encounter, as though it hadn't been half a year. "Expensive commodity, now; most of the system's resources are going to the rebuilding on Prime. So I'd appreciate if you didn't kill anyone with it."

"Got no reason to," Riddick shrugged, and took a measured sip.

"Remember that when Dahl busts in here, in about eight minutes," Johns snorted, leaning against the wall opposite him and crossing his arms over his chest. "So. About this quest of yours."

"Yeah, about that." Riddick set his cup down on the narrow serving surface, half emptied, and gave him a long, scrutinizing look. "Furya."

Johns had seen the scratches in the cave Riddick had used to lure them away from the merc station; the word itself didn't come as a surprise. The Furyans had never been a gregarious people, as dangerous and difficult to pin down as the cursed world they'd settled, but their reputation had been formidable. It explained a lot about Riddick's record that might otherwise be chalked up to exaggeration.

_I'll tell you this, Johns,_ he'd said, the last time they'd parted. _Sooner or later we all have to go home._ Johns didn't see what it had to do with _him_, though.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Need its location," Riddick clarified.

Johns frowned. He'd been a young, green soldier when word had filtered through the spacelanes that Furya had been leveled; one of the rare traders who made port on the elliptically orbiting planet had reported arriving to find its cities empty, streets running with blood. Genocide was an ugly word, and one that few had believed at the time, a generation before a dark armada had arrived like a meteor shower and swept legions of highly-trained defenders away like chaff on Helion Prime. The Necromongers had only been a _them_ in the decades between the two events, a dark whisper behind the sudden silence of the Coalsack worlds and the Aquila system, among others. No one knew why they hadn't stayed to finish the job on Helion Prime, or where they might have gone since.

Rumor had placed Riddick there not long before that attack, according to the sheet Johns had seen five years before, advertising an unusually high bounty. He wondered what the odds were that that was a coincidence. He'd joked about Riddick's version of reality being some kind of fucked-up fairytale, but it sounded like there might be more truth to it than not. What did that make Johns, then? Not all that eager to fill one of the traditional roles in some twisted hero's journey, that was for fucking sure.

"I'm a mercenary, Riddick, not a historian or a nav computer," he said, dryly. "Look it up."

"Tried that," Riddick drawled, coolly. "No dice. Tried asking a guy who said he'd been there when it went tits-up, and got shat out on the world you found me on for my trouble. Don't remember being there myself; I was kinda busy being born the day it died, and strangled with my own birth-cord for a chaser. So you'll understand if I don't take _fuck off_ for an answer."

The way the man could ooze menace without even raising his voice _was_ pretty fucking impressive. But it lost a little of its intimidation factor under the lights of Johns' own ship, with his armor still on, his favorite weapon holstered at his side, and his own men outside, riding a world where nothing more dangerous than humans moved under a single, bright sun.

Not enough for Johns to let down his guard, though. Or to explain why it jarred so badly to imagine the escaped con in front of him as ever having been that young and vulnerable. He'd never bothered to wonder what sort of childhood might have shaped a man like Riddick; all he'd needed to know was that he was a villain. No one imagines the monster in the dark as a baby, or wonders if the teenage soldier they'd been at the time could have shielded that baby from harm. And for good reason. The cognitive dissonance was threatening to lock Johns' brain up in knots.

"Maybe I would, if you told me why you expect an answer from me at all," he said, turning back to the lockers for another mug and a packet of grounds. He thought he was going to need that kaf, after all.

Riddick just shrugged. "Still got no reason to lie to me. Can't say that about most folk."

And didn't that just say it all about Riddick's usual contact with other human beings. Fair enough.

"Don't know what you expect me to tell you," he shrugged. "I never saw the place; never had a reason to go there. Few people did, except merchies, or the natives who hired out as soldiers on other worlds. I never met one, and by the time I took my discharge and went merc the rumors said I never would. Some folk said Furya was gone; some said it had never been more than a tall tale in the first place; and anyone who'd actually known someone claiming to be Furyan said they'd all gone AWOL one day and never came back. Pretty damned convenient to the conspiracy theorists. Though having met you, I'd guess they heard about what happened and decided payback was more important than paychecks."

Left unspoken was the implication of what had happened when they'd gone up against a foe powerful enough to depopulate worlds. Johns had never heard of another survivor. Somehow, he doubted Riddick had either, or the man would have gone to _them_ with his questions.

Riddick grunted, but didn't argue the point. "Merchants," he pressed. "Soldiers. Gotta come from somewhere. Gotta go _to_ somewhere. You gotta remember _something_ about where it was. There's no way that fucker Zhylaw got _all_ the records, no matter how good his data techs were. Necros got no imagination; all they really care about is their fucking Underverse."

Yeah, it was a real coincidence that Riddick had been reported on Helion Prime, all right. He could only have picked up those names and terms if he'd been there when the supposedly unstoppable force met an immovable object. Or maybe- another unstoppable force, travelling on an incompatible trajectory.

"I'd ask how you know that, or what the fuck the Underverse even _is_, but I don't think I'd like your answer much, either," Johns snorted, stirring a spoonful of sweet into the thick, dark liquid the dispenser produced. One of his few indulgences. "Can't tell you what I don't know. But I'll tell you where I'd start, if I was paid to track down the last man to set foot on the planet. Where's the earliest place you _do_ remember? If it wasn't Furya, you had to get there somehow. Babies don't fly ships on their own. Plot that world on a map, then walk back the reports of worlds going dark and colonies failing for the past few decades, 'til you find the point on the path nearest where you grew up. Somewhere on a line or arc between those two points should be the system you're looking for."

Riddick's posture stiffened as he processed Johns' suggestion; his silver eyes narrowed, focused like lasers on Johns' face, tracking the working of his throat as he took a long swallow of kaf. "That simple, huh," he replied, skeptically.

"Take the suggestion or not. Doesn't matter me none," Johns narrowed his eyes in return, lowering the mug again. "But this is what I do for a living. You hide; I _find_."

"Took you long enough to find _me_," Riddick challenged him.

"Took you long enough to leave a track," Johns fired back. "Whole planet's a little harder to lose. Wouldn't even have taken me ten years with _you_ if I hadn't already been two months deep into another chase the last time you popped up. Given what happened to Toombs and his crew when you broke out of Crematoria, though, I think I got the better end of that deal."

Riddick curled one corner of his mouth again. "Think _I_ did, actually. _You'd_ have taken the money. No ship laid over in the hangar, no reason to break out, no way to get back to New Mecca even if I still knocked out the Necros that crashed the party. Funny how things work out, sometimes."

Johns couldn't quite decide whether to be amused by the backhanded compliment, or pissed, yet again, at being rewritten as a supporting character in the epic tale of an asshole he'd rather have set on fire for the better part of ten years. Fortunately, his comm took that opportune moment to click three times, and his shoulders relaxed just a fraction more, letting go a tension he'd almost forgotten he was holding. Dahl was back, and she'd brought the new kids with her.

"Funny," he replied with an answering wry smile, saluting Riddick with his mug. "I suppose that's one word for it. So here's a couple more: time's up. I told you what I know. Now's your turn to tell me what _you_ know."

"Or...?" Riddick replied, half-smile increasing to a full-on smirk.

"No 'or'. Dahl's outside waiting for instruction; you give me Herton's location, and I'll send the team out to pick him up."

Riddick shifted his weight away from the wall, stance wide and balanced, one thumb hooked over the hilt of a bone-handled blade at his belt. "Or they'll come in to pick _me_ up?"

"You're the one who said it, not me," Johns shrugged, tone mild as milk to disguise the way his heartrate picked up at the motion. In all his life, he'd met maybe a handful of men who tripped that primitive, fight or flight instinct just by _existing_; and of those, Riddick was the only one he'd ever seen on his knees in front of him. He still hardly knew what to make of the adrenaline coursing through his system, sure only that he felt more alive than he had in months. "Sure, you could take me; probably take us all, and get out of here for nothing more than the price of breaking your word. But we could make it damn difficult. So let's just avoid that whole unpleasantness, shall we?"

Riddick moved then, taking one slow step after another, advancing across the room. Glacially slow- and just as inexorable. Some part of Johns knew he could get out of the way, if he wanted to. But he'd never been the kind of man to back down. He stared Riddick down as he approached, dropping the mug to free his hands, as though that would make a difference if Riddick chose to attack.

But he didn't; he stopped less than half a meter away, looming so close Johns could practically feel his body warmth, boots spattered with the dregs of the kaf, its scent mixing with his spicy, male musk. "Strangest damn merc I ever met," he mused aloud, those silver eyes hypnotic at such close range. "Never heard so many polite words aimed in my direction. What kind of world spawns a man like you?"

"The usual kind," Johns replied, mouth gone dry. "No special history. No special genes. Just a world full of people like any other."

"Somehow, I doubt that," Riddick replied with a chuckle, a low sound that plucked at Johns' nerves like harp strings. "This makes twice now you've surprised me, Johns. Makes me tempted to pry this turtle shell off you and see if I _can_ take you. Make it three for three." He raised a hand, rapping against the pliable armor over Johns' chest with his knuckles, like a civilized man at a door, asking for entry.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Dahl was never going to let him live it down- assuming he lived through it at all. Johns reached out, bracing a wide hand against Riddick's broad, muscled chest, and pushed back, just enough to catch his attention. "Herton," he reminded him, startled by the rough sound of his own voice.

Riddick threw back his head and laughed, the sound just as wild as it had been in P7, sending an electric jolt through Johns' system. Though he hadn't had quite the same reaction, then; fear and arousal worked the same nerves, but for different ends. "You _do_ know how to keep your eye on the prize. Promising. He's on my ship, locked down in cryo; standard binders. Should be easy to find. I ain't changed ships yet, and the beacon should be lighting up about now. But it's a good two hour walk from here. How long you think it'll take your crew to run it on those bikes of yours?"

Johns swallowed, then reached up with his other hand to trigger his comm. He ignored Dahl's acerbic questions about what the hell was going on; just ordered her to take the others, track down Santana's ship, and report back when they found the bounty- or proof it wasn't there.

"And Dahl..." he added after a moment, settling on a way of letting her know he wasn't in any immediate danger... but to stay on her guard.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"I think you might've been right about the stalking," he said, very dryly, then keyed the comm off to the sound of her steady cursing.

Yeah. So. There was that.

Riddick was grinning; no wariness in his body language, pulse thudding steadily against the palm of Johns' hand. "Woman after my own heart," he said.

"Best hire I ever made," Johns agreed, then shoved again, moving Riddick enough to get his back off the lockers, give him a little room to move. There was one question left to ask.

"One more thing. That kid. Tell me he was one of the three."

"What kid?" Riddick's brow furrowed; for once, he'd caught him off guard.

"_The_ kid." Johns wasn't going to let him play dumb. "Tell me it was worth it."

Riddick's eyes widened, and he went quiet for a long moment, still under the press of Johns' hand. Then he spoke, the words a rumble almost too low to hear. "She. Girl called herself Jack. And she was. Lived another five years- 'til the Necros came." He didn't elaborate on that, but Johns could feel the weight of the words, and the searing light in his eyes was like a brand on Johns' face. "I owed her. And I'm a man who pays his debts."

A man who'd deprived Johns of his son. A man who'd saved a little girl.

A killer who defied armies. And whose life Johns had saved. What kind of debt did _that_ create?

He thought back again to the dull months since their last meeting; the clarity that had burned in his veins at the first sound of Riddick's voice after a subjective eternity of going through the motions. Fuck it. If he _was_ destined to be reduced to a verse in Riddick's edda, it was damned well going to be a memorable one.

Johns curled his hand, digging blunt fingernails into the meat of Riddick's chest. "I find I've lost my taste for vengeance as currency," he suggested.

"Think I could find another way to settle up," Riddick chuckled, tugging his knife from its sheath to drop next to the abandoned mug. As he had once before, on a lichen-covered steppe halfway across the galaxy: a gesture of intent. Not that either of them would ever be harmless.

Johns' holster joined it on the floor a few long seconds later. He felt more naked without it than he would without his armor, but he was long past any point of return.

"Thirty minutes," he said, hoarsely. "There, search, and back? Answer's thirty minutes."

"More than enough time," Riddick said, and bent all his considerable skill to the task.

-x-


End file.
